I'm supposed to be revising my B.A. thesis (which is turning into this gigantic, headache-y, quasi-ridiculous mess), writing up an outline, and writing up 6 pages of my final paper. I'm also supposed to be going to class today. However, given my achy muscles, sniffly nose, and feverish skin, I think I'll be staying in my dorm today so that I can recover/rest before going to the Opera tonight. Boo on you, allergies, boo on you.
What I hate most about feeling under the weather is that I lose all ability to hold a cogent conversation with people. Allergies and class also don't go well together - I feel like I spurt half-thoughts and stupid things. And because I sleep a lot when I'm feeling sick, I feel like I have been kept in a terrible form of self-imposed isolation for the past 3 days. Aside from my physical ills, I suppose I'm going through a bout of homesickness. Rather, people-sickness - when abroad, I tend to miss people way more than I do the random comforts/familiarities of home. I just wish I were awake enough so that I could indulge in little things like gchatting, skypeing, or emailing the people I love.
That said, I think the worst of my allergies is almost over. One of my friends in my program brought a bunch of Claritin with her... even though she doesn't have allergies. Lucky girl for not having allergies; extraordinarily lucky me that she brought Claritin to Paris! This is an especially fortuitous event because the French are waaaay more stringent about selling over-the-counter drugs.
As in... they don't.
So if I wanted any sort of allergy medicine, I'd have to pay about 25 euro to see a doctor (not terrible, but I'd like to hold onto my euro) so that I could get a prescription for Claritin/Zyrtec/some other allergy medicine I'd be able to buy in bulk from Costco. Meh!
Also, my sister is coming to visit this weekend! We have vague, action-packed plans for the next few days, so I'm pretty darn excited. Speaking of which, I'll need to plan this weekend right after posting this...
Krakow re-cap to come later today. Expect plenty of snowy pictures and a lot of beer =)
xoxo,
D
3:44 PM Update: I just named my B.A. "Collecting, Space, and the Dialectics of Memory in W.G. Sebald’s Austerlitz and Walter Benjamin’s Berlin Childhood around 1900." Good God, can I sound any more pretentious? More importantly, I need a *way* catchier title...
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Achoo!
I have SO MUCH to write about - Krakow adventures, Girona strolls, Barcelona roamings - and *will* write/post pretty pictures in the near future.
However, I am feeling devastatingly light-headed and sneezy at the moment on account of allergies. My allergies are pretty severe - not only do I develop post-nasal drip and sneeze like a mofo, but I run really high temperatures. My personal record is 103.5. Sigh.
Time to pop pills and sleep!
Times like this I really wish I had someone taking care of me. Not going to lie - I would absolutely love a big bowl of chicken noodle soup right now... and someone to tuck me into bed.
xoxo,
D
However, I am feeling devastatingly light-headed and sneezy at the moment on account of allergies. My allergies are pretty severe - not only do I develop post-nasal drip and sneeze like a mofo, but I run really high temperatures. My personal record is 103.5. Sigh.
Time to pop pills and sleep!
Times like this I really wish I had someone taking care of me. Not going to lie - I would absolutely love a big bowl of chicken noodle soup right now... and someone to tuck me into bed.
xoxo,
D
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Getting fat in Girona!
Girona is absolutely fantastic. I just bought a really comfortable & cute black Italian dress for 12 euro and am thrilled by the prospect of further shopping tomorrow. I am also sitting in a food coma induced by a 3 course meal + bottle of wine, a dinner that cost 10 euro (that´s the cost of, like, a savory crepe and drink in Paris!).
I have fallen in love with Girona... and Girona is a wonderful place to fall in love. Way to give Paris a run for its money, Girona!
xoxo,
D
I have fallen in love with Girona... and Girona is a wonderful place to fall in love. Way to give Paris a run for its money, Girona!
xoxo,
D
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Hardcore travel ahead!
I seem to be absolutely terrible at actually updating; lately, when I *do* have something to say, it seems to be a message about taking off for somewhere else. Unfortunately, this post is no exception - my class is leaving for Krakow tomorrow morning (like, really really really early in the morning. I think I'm going to get up at 3am just to make sure I make the flight) and will be returning on Monday. On Tuesday, I'm flying out to Girona, then will eventually make my way to Barcelona for Carnivale.
What scares me is that I have spent about 6 weeks in Paris... and there is still so much I have yet to explore! Perhaps I can convince my conversation group to explore the Grand Mosque today... ironically, we would be exploring a mosque right before heading to a bar. Hmm...
xoxo,
Danica
What scares me is that I have spent about 6 weeks in Paris... and there is still so much I have yet to explore! Perhaps I can convince my conversation group to explore the Grand Mosque today... ironically, we would be exploring a mosque right before heading to a bar. Hmm...
xoxo,
Danica
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Chapter 4: The Eiffel Tower
Chapter 3 was boring - there was too much pish-posh pseudo-academic speech in it.
I marvel at Sebald's ability to write beautifully, sentimentally, despite the high theory steeped into every penned word.
xxx
La Tour Eiffel.
Meaning?
The Eiffel Tower.
Meaning?
A tower built by Gustave Eiffel.
Meaning?
Unknown.
The Eiffel Tower is Paris’ everything and nothing, a beacon of light in the darkness that ultimately leads nowhere. She seems Paris’ pretty bauble – a glittering jewel in the night, an iron spire to the heavens by day. She has no other function than to stand tall and straight and cast-iron pretty among the Parisian clouds.
But without the Tower, what is Paris? The Tower marks Paris, watches Paris, caresses Paris. Without her, the city has no soul. The Parisian panorama is not real without her iron skeleton pressed against the sky. Poets, painters, and artists – all have made, are making, and will make works praising her metal sinews. Lovers cling to her rigid bones as the world shifts in romantic tumult beneath their feet. Entire livings are made through the sale of Tower paraphernalia – the gristle-faced men who hawk miniature replicas of the Tower around Montmartre and St. Michel, the dark-eyed women who sell scarves stamped with the Tower’s image in their shops. To some, she is more than an idea. The simulacrum has become more real than reality.
The Tower is sign, signifier, signified – she answers to no one but herself. It is precisely because she has no meaning that she has come to mean so much. Her emptiness has been filled with the invisible weight of history; time immemorial is held in the hollows of her frame, the iron net of her bones. She is a keeper of the past and, from her heavenly vantage point, a seer of the future. Shadows of memory and nostalgia for the future turn her into a symbol for progress and the capacity to change.
The first time I saw the Eiffel Tower, the city was wet and slick and getting over the rain. She emerged from the mists like the Lady of the Lake: ethereal, ephemeral, splendid. Her swan neck cloaked in the cotton of fog, her legs proud and firmly planted in the ground, she was every inch more majestic than I could have imagined. Only by gazing upon her did I finally feel that, yes, I had arrived in Paris. Here was the tower of dreams, the structure captured time and time again in watercolors, cartoons, film.
Climbing the steps of the Tower sent a shiver through the warm animal of my body. I was a small, nondescript creature making my way through the most intimate parts of her frame. The thrill of the voyeur. My hands touched everything, my flesh sharing in the secrets of history and time and air that had passed through her bones. My eyes reveled in the sight from underneath her iron petticoat. She was an exhibitionist in the truest form. Lavishing in her interior, I realized that, for the first time in Paris, I could put my camera away and drink in the sights without a care in the world. My body no longer had to move like a lateral viewfinder; with all eyes on the Tower, the world had left its defenses down.
At the top of the Tower, I looked down at the Grand Palais, the Arc de Triomphe, the Seine.
At the top of the Tower, I breathed deep and free.
I marvel at Sebald's ability to write beautifully, sentimentally, despite the high theory steeped into every penned word.
xxx
La Tour Eiffel.
Meaning?
The Eiffel Tower.
Meaning?
A tower built by Gustave Eiffel.
Meaning?
Unknown.
The Eiffel Tower is Paris’ everything and nothing, a beacon of light in the darkness that ultimately leads nowhere. She seems Paris’ pretty bauble – a glittering jewel in the night, an iron spire to the heavens by day. She has no other function than to stand tall and straight and cast-iron pretty among the Parisian clouds.
But without the Tower, what is Paris? The Tower marks Paris, watches Paris, caresses Paris. Without her, the city has no soul. The Parisian panorama is not real without her iron skeleton pressed against the sky. Poets, painters, and artists – all have made, are making, and will make works praising her metal sinews. Lovers cling to her rigid bones as the world shifts in romantic tumult beneath their feet. Entire livings are made through the sale of Tower paraphernalia – the gristle-faced men who hawk miniature replicas of the Tower around Montmartre and St. Michel, the dark-eyed women who sell scarves stamped with the Tower’s image in their shops. To some, she is more than an idea. The simulacrum has become more real than reality.
The Tower is sign, signifier, signified – she answers to no one but herself. It is precisely because she has no meaning that she has come to mean so much. Her emptiness has been filled with the invisible weight of history; time immemorial is held in the hollows of her frame, the iron net of her bones. She is a keeper of the past and, from her heavenly vantage point, a seer of the future. Shadows of memory and nostalgia for the future turn her into a symbol for progress and the capacity to change.
The first time I saw the Eiffel Tower, the city was wet and slick and getting over the rain. She emerged from the mists like the Lady of the Lake: ethereal, ephemeral, splendid. Her swan neck cloaked in the cotton of fog, her legs proud and firmly planted in the ground, she was every inch more majestic than I could have imagined. Only by gazing upon her did I finally feel that, yes, I had arrived in Paris. Here was the tower of dreams, the structure captured time and time again in watercolors, cartoons, film.
Climbing the steps of the Tower sent a shiver through the warm animal of my body. I was a small, nondescript creature making my way through the most intimate parts of her frame. The thrill of the voyeur. My hands touched everything, my flesh sharing in the secrets of history and time and air that had passed through her bones. My eyes reveled in the sight from underneath her iron petticoat. She was an exhibitionist in the truest form. Lavishing in her interior, I realized that, for the first time in Paris, I could put my camera away and drink in the sights without a care in the world. My body no longer had to move like a lateral viewfinder; with all eyes on the Tower, the world had left its defenses down.
At the top of the Tower, I looked down at the Grand Palais, the Arc de Triomphe, the Seine.
At the top of the Tower, I breathed deep and free.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Chapter 2: Lovers
In New York City, lovers hold hands through Central Park. Kissing is a daring game – pecks on a frostbitten face to the tune of rattling subway cars, a poorly hidden bout of footsie underneath the tiny tables of Max Brenner’s chocolate shop. Yet, complaints about lovers seem more common than the act of loving; in Starbucks across the city, jaded twenty-somethings declare that “love is dead!” over cups of burnt coffee. A boy once told me that New York’s obsession with flashing lights and adrenaline movements have made it impossible for her people to recognize love. Love is too slow for the Big Apple; love is a well-guarded secret from the people who call NYC home.
Paris may be the City of Lights, but she moves in seductive, deliberate movements across the threshold of space and time. Lovers in the metro do not suffer from frostbitten faces – they kiss openly and defiantly, needing no prompting from the blanket of metro music. Café tables in Paris are even smaller than those in Max Brenner’s chocolate shop; there is no room for footsie, only space to knock knees and bow heads in quiet conversation.
Paris moves easy and slow. She, in fact, cannot move without love – her history is studded with stories of passion, her monuments are markers of first kisses, first loves, first heartbreaks. In history: the tumultuous love of Napoleon and Josephine, the modern day romance of Yvan Attal and Charlotte Gainsbourg that transcends both reality and movie screen. In monuments: markers of first meetings and the passage of love and time.
It begins, perhaps, at the steps of Sacre Coeur. A man with guitar sings Beatles songs about the flutters and thrills of love, drawing crowds of eager hearts to the stairs, to his stage. A boy and girl meet, walk down the steps, wander the streets of Montmartre with nothing but art and passion on their minds. They arrange a meeting for a cold day at the Eiffel Tower and, under the Tower’s gaze, huddle for warmth. The Tower may see huddled infatuation day in and day out, but she never tires of winking at lovers as they leave her grounds and stroll, arm in arm, down cobblestone streets.
Monuments serve as markers of memory, of time, of history, of love - the boy and girl flock to monuments to make their own memories, time, history, love. Each time the boy and girl walk down the stairs from the Sacre Coeur, they pass by an old couple climbing up to the cathedral. Boy and girl, man and woman, young and old – they lock eyes and nod, understanding that in Paris, time has collapsed and that the past and future of love is most easily recognized in the present.
Paris may be the City of Lights, but she moves in seductive, deliberate movements across the threshold of space and time. Lovers in the metro do not suffer from frostbitten faces – they kiss openly and defiantly, needing no prompting from the blanket of metro music. Café tables in Paris are even smaller than those in Max Brenner’s chocolate shop; there is no room for footsie, only space to knock knees and bow heads in quiet conversation.
Paris moves easy and slow. She, in fact, cannot move without love – her history is studded with stories of passion, her monuments are markers of first kisses, first loves, first heartbreaks. In history: the tumultuous love of Napoleon and Josephine, the modern day romance of Yvan Attal and Charlotte Gainsbourg that transcends both reality and movie screen. In monuments: markers of first meetings and the passage of love and time.
It begins, perhaps, at the steps of Sacre Coeur. A man with guitar sings Beatles songs about the flutters and thrills of love, drawing crowds of eager hearts to the stairs, to his stage. A boy and girl meet, walk down the steps, wander the streets of Montmartre with nothing but art and passion on their minds. They arrange a meeting for a cold day at the Eiffel Tower and, under the Tower’s gaze, huddle for warmth. The Tower may see huddled infatuation day in and day out, but she never tires of winking at lovers as they leave her grounds and stroll, arm in arm, down cobblestone streets.
Monuments serve as markers of memory, of time, of history, of love - the boy and girl flock to monuments to make their own memories, time, history, love. Each time the boy and girl walk down the stairs from the Sacre Coeur, they pass by an old couple climbing up to the cathedral. Boy and girl, man and woman, young and old – they lock eyes and nod, understanding that in Paris, time has collapsed and that the past and future of love is most easily recognized in the present.
Monday, February 9, 2009
My Paris
Today, I will start monitoring what I eat - apparently I really *am* getting fat in Paris. Oh dear.
I am too lazy to charge my camera/upload pictures at the moment, so I'm posting part 1 of my photo essay for my last class. Apt timing - I am feeling reflective & nostalgic & sentimental in this city of lights and love. The text gets unwieldy, I know, but the photos are fun.
xxx
My Paris
Chapter One: The Lateral Viewfinder
A girl knows that to see, she must not be seen. Black-kohled eyes are seen as suggestion, as invitation, as invasion – the world changes when it feels a set of pupils running along the curves of its steel-frame body. In fact, the world will not lie still when it knows it is being watched; it deploys the sharp words of old women with angular faces and the forward advances of men in tattered jackets to ward off the threat of the girl’s gaze. Instead, the girl learns to see through black-glass reflections and the zoom function of her camera. It is only when she is perched upon crumbling walls or crouched below the eyes of the crowd that the world lowers its defenses and allows itself to be photographed. Her movements mimic the lateral viewfinder because it is the only way to live in this city.
I am too lazy to charge my camera/upload pictures at the moment, so I'm posting part 1 of my photo essay for my last class. Apt timing - I am feeling reflective & nostalgic & sentimental in this city of lights and love. The text gets unwieldy, I know, but the photos are fun.
xxx
My Paris
Chapter One: The Lateral Viewfinder
A girl knows that to see, she must not be seen. Black-kohled eyes are seen as suggestion, as invitation, as invasion – the world changes when it feels a set of pupils running along the curves of its steel-frame body. In fact, the world will not lie still when it knows it is being watched; it deploys the sharp words of old women with angular faces and the forward advances of men in tattered jackets to ward off the threat of the girl’s gaze. Instead, the girl learns to see through black-glass reflections and the zoom function of her camera. It is only when she is perched upon crumbling walls or crouched below the eyes of the crowd that the world lowers its defenses and allows itself to be photographed. Her movements mimic the lateral viewfinder because it is the only way to live in this city.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
I Miss You. Yes, You.
I’ve recently come to realize how much I value “me” time. Lack of “me” time makes me cranky and awkward and unapologetic, which was precisely why yesterday was an emotional roller coaster for me. Once I got some space to think about why I was in such a bad mood, I also realized that I’m missing all of you very, very, very much. I know that a lot of the people that I’m missing are never going to read this, but it feels good just to get it out there.
So, ironically, “me” time makes me realize how awesome my friends are and how badly I wish that you were here with me.
I’m heading out for sangria later, which means I’m in the process of frantically writing up homework and attempting to nap. My body has decided that not sleeping is fun; after getting back from Footsie (a “stock market” bar. The basic concept is that drink prices increase as drink demand increases. Great concept, but the little screens at the bar = they totally could have executed it better) at 5am this morning, I was up and about at 9:30. Oy.
xoxo & lots of fond memories,
D
So, ironically, “me” time makes me realize how awesome my friends are and how badly I wish that you were here with me.
I’m heading out for sangria later, which means I’m in the process of frantically writing up homework and attempting to nap. My body has decided that not sleeping is fun; after getting back from Footsie (a “stock market” bar. The basic concept is that drink prices increase as drink demand increases. Great concept, but the little screens at the bar = they totally could have executed it better) at 5am this morning, I was up and about at 9:30. Oy.
xoxo & lots of fond memories,
D
Friday, February 6, 2009
Bliss, beer, & books
Paris weather has hit a beautiful 50 degrees. Despite the fact that I am still trying not to hack up a lung (and probably aggravated my lungs by taking a nice, long, much-needed drag yesterday night), I’m feeling a sense of calm and happiness that I haven’t felt in a very, very long time. It’s enough to inspire me to write again; good God, it’s been years since I’ve felt this way. Expect some clumsy pseudo-literary attempts in the near future – I think I’ll be posting my photo essay up over the course of the next few days.
A little incident happened yesterday that could have made yesterday a pretty shoddy day, but everything in Paris has a way of working itself out. Namely, I was supposed to meet my friend, Jordan, for hot chocolate during his one week stay in Paris… and, well, I waited outside the restaurant for 45 minutes, panicking about his well-being, while Jordan was chilling inside the restaurant for 1.5 hours, wondering where in the hell I could be. I’m a little disappointed I didn’t get to enjoy hot chocolate with Jordan, but decided that since I’d finally dragged myself to Angelina, I wouldn’t let the opportunity for hot chocolate and delicious dessert pass me by. Therefore, I made a call to a certain lovely lady (who goes by the name of Maranda =) ), and did some exploring as I waited for her to make her way to the tearoom. I dropped by Galignani, “the first English book store established on the continent,” and found out that they carry every W.G. Sebald book… except for the one I need for my B.A. Then, around the corner, I found this beautiful church:
By the time Maranda got to Angelina, I was starving and in desperate need of chocolate. We quelled my thirst for chocolate with this beautiful spread:
From Angelina, I went straight to the Académie de la Bière to celebrate a beer-loving friend’s birthday. I had a delicious Hoegaarden Grand Cru, Kriek Saint Louis (a little too much cherry for my taste), and some beer-boiled mussels (so amazing. SO amazing). I don't really have a good picture of the place/us, so just use your imagination =)
I’m about to head out to roam around some bookstores around St. Michel/along the Seine, FINALLY get my Louvre pass, and visit the Alexander Nevski Cathedral. At some point, I’ll need to write up an Amsterdam recap…
xoxo,
D
A little incident happened yesterday that could have made yesterday a pretty shoddy day, but everything in Paris has a way of working itself out. Namely, I was supposed to meet my friend, Jordan, for hot chocolate during his one week stay in Paris… and, well, I waited outside the restaurant for 45 minutes, panicking about his well-being, while Jordan was chilling inside the restaurant for 1.5 hours, wondering where in the hell I could be. I’m a little disappointed I didn’t get to enjoy hot chocolate with Jordan, but decided that since I’d finally dragged myself to Angelina, I wouldn’t let the opportunity for hot chocolate and delicious dessert pass me by. Therefore, I made a call to a certain lovely lady (who goes by the name of Maranda =) ), and did some exploring as I waited for her to make her way to the tearoom. I dropped by Galignani, “the first English book store established on the continent,” and found out that they carry every W.G. Sebald book… except for the one I need for my B.A. Then, around the corner, I found this beautiful church:
By the time Maranda got to Angelina, I was starving and in desperate need of chocolate. We quelled my thirst for chocolate with this beautiful spread:From Angelina, I went straight to the Académie de la Bière to celebrate a beer-loving friend’s birthday. I had a delicious Hoegaarden Grand Cru, Kriek Saint Louis (a little too much cherry for my taste), and some beer-boiled mussels (so amazing. SO amazing). I don't really have a good picture of the place/us, so just use your imagination =)
I’m about to head out to roam around some bookstores around St. Michel/along the Seine, FINALLY get my Louvre pass, and visit the Alexander Nevski Cathedral. At some point, I’ll need to write up an Amsterdam recap…
xoxo,
D
Monday, February 2, 2009
In need of a hug and an oversized sweatshirt
The combination of another Parisian snow, my current class, and my B.A. are kind of bringing me down. Don't get me wrong - I think my current class (on language, identity, and politics) is amazing and I love my B.A. topics/the critical theory I need to get through, but talking about the Holocaust makes me depressed. Makes anyone depressed, really.
For class, I am reading a book called "The Language of the Third Reich" by Victor Klemperer, a philologist who survived the Holocaust and maintained a diary/academic work about how the Nazi language infiltrated every crevice of German language. I think it is one of the most beautiful and most melancholic things I have ever read; he reminds me a lot of Walter Benjamin (not surprising. Same time, same emotions, same hurt over a poisoned Europe).
I leave for Krakow at the end of next week, which I am looking forward to and absolutely dreading: we will be visiting Auschwitz on February 13 (day before Valentine's day. That's some dark, terrible humor for you), and I'm not really sure how my class will handle it. I feel like visiting sites of tragedy is an intensely personal thing; I'm not sure how traveling in a group will pan out.
My B.A. has turned into a study of how Benjamin's "Berlin Childhood Around 1900" is echoed/is not echoed by W.G. Sebald's "Austerlitz." They are both beautifully written and stained with the black bile of horror and broken dreams. Benjamin was forced to flee Berlin when Hitler came to power (before then, really). Austerlitz, the protagonist of "Austerlitz," is a man who slowly pieces together a scarred and terrible past; he survived the Holocaust because of the kindertransport, his parents did not.
I need to study for my French midterm now, but I can't shake the dull ache in my chest after reading so much depressing literature. What I need: a hug (a real, good hug) and a warm, oversized sweatshirt. Maybe some hot chocolate.
For class, I am reading a book called "The Language of the Third Reich" by Victor Klemperer, a philologist who survived the Holocaust and maintained a diary/academic work about how the Nazi language infiltrated every crevice of German language. I think it is one of the most beautiful and most melancholic things I have ever read; he reminds me a lot of Walter Benjamin (not surprising. Same time, same emotions, same hurt over a poisoned Europe).
I leave for Krakow at the end of next week, which I am looking forward to and absolutely dreading: we will be visiting Auschwitz on February 13 (day before Valentine's day. That's some dark, terrible humor for you), and I'm not really sure how my class will handle it. I feel like visiting sites of tragedy is an intensely personal thing; I'm not sure how traveling in a group will pan out.
My B.A. has turned into a study of how Benjamin's "Berlin Childhood Around 1900" is echoed/is not echoed by W.G. Sebald's "Austerlitz." They are both beautifully written and stained with the black bile of horror and broken dreams. Benjamin was forced to flee Berlin when Hitler came to power (before then, really). Austerlitz, the protagonist of "Austerlitz," is a man who slowly pieces together a scarred and terrible past; he survived the Holocaust because of the kindertransport, his parents did not.
I need to study for my French midterm now, but I can't shake the dull ache in my chest after reading so much depressing literature. What I need: a hug (a real, good hug) and a warm, oversized sweatshirt. Maybe some hot chocolate.
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